


self-control

by light



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-11
Updated: 2012-06-11
Packaged: 2017-11-07 12:03:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,598
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/430969
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/light/pseuds/light
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock doesn't think that John will be able to refrain from having sex with him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	self-control

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the following prompt on the kinkmeme: "They make a bet that John loses, and he has to hold off from fucking Sherlock as long as he can when Sherlock's in heat this time around. Then delicious knotting porn, because Sherlock is fucking gagging for it." at the requesting of a friend who knows who they are. :) Unbetaed.

“I told you,” Sherlock says as he pulls the gloves from his hands, “It was the alpha who did it. Wasn’t even his own omega.” He flicks the gloves into a trash can and looks at John, “Your type just can’t control yourselves, can you?”

John refrains from rolling his eyes, “So sorry for failing to meet your exacting standards, Sherlock. It’s a bit biological you know, we can’t just turn it on and off like a machine.” Not that Sherlock was one to talk. John clearly remembered the four days they had spent in bed during Sherlock’s last heat. He was pretty sure he had lost a quarter stone solely from their lack of inclination to do anything other than sex.

“Bet you couldn’t do it,” Sherlock says.

“What?”

Sherlock looks at him speculatively, “Control yourself.”

“Seriously?” John asks, “You realize that this affects you just as much, doesn’t it?”

Sherlock licks his lips. “I like a challenge.”

~

Two weeks later, Sherlock starts his cycle. John can tell because when he wakes up in the morning, he’s grinding unconsciously against Sherlock’s back. He forces himself to stop and it takes an effort to roll away. He throws an arm over his eyes. Sherlock turns toward him, pressing his nose into John’s shoulder.

“Sherlock,” John says, “Get up.”

Sherlock puts a hand on his chest and fucking _purrs_ as he drags fingertips down the cotton shirt.

“Sherlock!” John says more loudly.

Sherlock stills and opens his eyes a slit, “What?” He moves closer to John, practically ready to crawl on top of him.

“Self-control,” John says, “Mine. You wanted to test it?”

Sherlock doesn’t move for a moment. Then he sighs and detaches himself, “If you insist, John.” He gets up and picks up a shirt ( _John’s_ , the alpha part of his brain gleefully offers) before heading into the bathroom.

“This was your idea,” John calls to Sherlock’s retreating back.

~

John is on edge at the surgery all day. His brain keeps pointing out to him that Sherlock was at home waiting for him, that Sherlock was in heat right now and he hadn’t _marked_ Sherlock yet and that was all forms of wrong wrong wrong. He’s had experience ignoring it though, so he just shoves it the back of his mind and spends more time than usual looking at lab results instead of facing any patients.

“John,” Sarah says when she pops her head into his office, “Isn’t this about the time that you take a week off?”

“Uh,” John says, “The cycle’s a little off.”

“Oh,” She steps into his office and wow no that was not what John wanted at all. He cringes inwardly and thinks that she can smell the panic and frustration coming off of him even though as a beta she’s not as attuned to the pheromones. “You should really tell Sherlock to get that checked.”

His brain latches onto the word _Sherlock_ and reminds him for the umpteenth time that Sherlock. Was at home. Waiting for him.

“Right,” John says and wills Sarah to leave his office, “I’ll be sure to tell him that.”

~

John stands outside the door to 221B. Half of him dreads opening it and the other half is absolutely ravenous for Sherlock, Sherlock’s face, his taut body, his gorgeously slim cock and the hole that John can imagine now, absolutely dripping and just waiting for John to sink in and complete him. Fuck. He can already pick up traces of it from outside the flat, the undeniably _Sherlock_ scent that makes the primal part of John’s brain snarl and lay stake.

Self-control. Right.

John opens the door.

The scent is stronger but still faint. Fuck, that meant Sherlock had spent the entire day inside the flat with the door closed. “Self-control,” John repeats to himself, “Self-control.” It’s going to take all of it for the concentration of pheromone Sherlock’s so graciously built up for him.

He climbs the stairs and pauses with his hand on the doorknob. It’s stronger here and John’s nostrils flare with the effort he’s making of breathing it all in. Dear god that was delicious. John wondered if Sherlock was inside right now, legs spread on the sofa as he fingerfucked himself and waited for John to come home. John can’t wait to push Sherlock over the arm of the sofa and kneel on the ground, licking Sherlock clean until he fucking comes from it.

_Self-control,_ the rational part of his brain reminds him weakly as he opens the door.

Sherlock sits on the sofa, reading a book. But there’s a hot flush creeping up his neck from under his bathrobe and he’s sitting too still and stiff to actually be reading. John knows that Sherlock knows he’s standing in the doorway. Hell, he probably knew when John paused outside, in front of the building.

John tamps down on the urge to pull Sherlock up and fuck him against the nearest surface. Instead he shuts the door quietly after himself and sets his briefcase in its usual spot. He pulls off his shoes and takes off his jacket. He sets his jacket on the back of the sofa and only then does he allow himself to pay attention to Sherlock. Sherlock is trembling. Minutely, but still trembling.

“How was your day?” John is impressed that his voice doesn’t shake. Oh god, he wants to shove Sherlock on his back so badly, wants to nip at the crook of his neck and push into him.

“Good,” Sherlock says carefully. John sits down next to him. _Self-control_.

He touches Sherlock’s thigh, just to see if he can. The muscle jumps under the palm of his hand. He forces the hand to relax, wills it not to curl around the leg and pull those pale legs apart.

And then: “Hang on, what’s this?”

John lifts Sherlock’s bathrobe and Sherlock actually fucking moans. The smell of Sherlock’s sex briefly whites out any other thought that John might have had--but John forces that side of him down with a renewed determination and realizes that Sherlock has a fucking bullet vibrator in his hole.

“Oh love,” John says, putting his fingertips to the smooth edge of the plastic and pulling away with Sherlock’s wetness, “You could do with something bigger.”

“Fuck,” Sherlock breathes, “Please John. Take it out. I need--I need--”

John leans forward and bites Sherlock’s earlobe lightly before smoothing it with his tongue. His finger traces around the vibrator, the inside of his wrist brushes up against Sherlock’s balls. God he wants nothing more than to have Sherlock warm and pliant in their bed right now.

But.

“Maybe later,” John breathes, “I do have a modicum of self-control, you know.” And then he leaves for the kitchen. The sound of Sherlock’s muffled scream is enough to put a smile on his face.

~

“I’m sleeping on the couch,” John tells Sherlock.

“Isn’t this medically unsound?” Sherlock demands. He’s taken out the vibrator spent the last two hours sulking at John. John still finds him hugely appetizing, despite the ugly expression on his face.

“Not until the third day,” John says, and ignores the furious urge to cover every inch of Sherlock’s skin with his saliva in favour of watching telly.

~

John wakes in the middle of the night to a heavy weight settling on his stomach.

“What the hell?” John asks, opening his eyes. Sherlock is fucking _sitting_ on him.

“I want it,” Sherlock says and moves his hips. There’s a smear of liquid against John’s stomach, “I keep thinking about it. Please John, I need it.”

“Jesus Christ,” John says and is slightly unamused to discover that his dick takes very well to his omega rubbing his wetness all over him. The rest of him agrees with Sherlock enthusiastically.

“It would be so good,” Sherlock breathes as his fingers ruck up John’s cotton shirt, pushing them to his armpits, “Think about it John. Your big cock in me, your knot swelling and filling me up. I can’t stop thinking about it John, I can’t think about anything else.”

“And this was why you were on the pill for fifteen years,” John whispers back but his hands are already on Sherlock’s hips as Sherlock rocks against him, “Sober you would hate the words coming out of your mouth right now.”

“I don’t care,” Sherlock says and pushes at John’s boxers, “I want it, please John.”

John pivots on the sofa and sits up before tipping Sherlock on the floor. Sherlock looks up at him from his sudden position on the rug, confused and hurt.

“Come on,” John murmurs, holding out a hand. His stomach is cooling rapidly and his cock hasn’t lost any interest whatsoever. Sherlock lets John help him up and they head back into the bedroom.

“On the bed,” John says, “On your back. Legs spread.”

Sherlock does as John orders. John crawls over him and presses his forehead to Sherlock’s.

“I’m not going to fuck you right now, because _I care_ , okay?” John says. He kisses Sherlock and Sherlock whines against his lips.

“Shh,” John says and moves down. He pauses a moment to sink his tongue into Sherlock’s navel before slipping Sherlock’s thighs over his shoulders and licking at that delicious hole. Sherlock makes a strangled shout and he gets wetter if at all possible. John presses his tongue in and drags the tip of it over where he knows Sherlock’s gland to be. God it was good, the taste of Sherlock, pressed into the very scent of him, John wants more, needs more, Sherlock, Sherlock, Sherlock.

Sherlock comes with a soft cry, his come landing in John’s hair. John laps at him a few more times before mouthing Sherlock’s balls and kissing the underside of Sherlock’s softening cock. A good part of him wants to flip Sherlock on his back and knot him while he was still soft and yielding. But instead he presses a kiss to the inside of Sherlock’s trembling thigh and thinks to himself _self-control_.

~

When John wakes up, Sherlock has left the room. John casually rolls into the space that Sherlock had occupied the night before and presses his nose into Sherlock’s pillow. He inhales and feels the familiar stirring low in his stomach. His. And where was he?

John gets up out of bed and wanders into the kitchen. Sherlock sits in his armchair, a book open in his hand. He actually seems to be reading, though at a much slower pace than John’s used to.

“Food?” John asks. Sherlock looks up at him and his eyes trail down his body, lingering at the half-hearted tenting of his boxers before snapping up to his face. Sherlock goes a faint red.

“You’ve had a change of heart,” John realizes.

Sherlock draws in a breath, “My behaviour yesterday was pathetic. If you can control it, then so can I.”

John pauses. Then he smiles, “Okay. Let’s set a deadline.”

“Tonight.”

“Okay,” John agrees, “Now about that food?”

~

John sits on the sofa. Sherlock is across the room, sitting in his armchair. John’s supposed to be reading a book but he can’t help but stare at Sherlock and breathe in the delicious scent of him and think about what they’re going to do.

“You know,” John says, “I really like it when you wear my clothes.”

Sherlock looks down at the T-shirt he’s wearing and looks pleased with himself, “I like smelling you on them.” His voice is pitched low, almost purr.

“Sometimes,” John goes on, because his brain has apparently deleted the filter between his thoughts and his mouth, “Sometimes I wish you wouldn’t shower after we have sex. And we’d go out into public and people would smell me on you and they’d know that you were _mine_.”

Sherlock shifts slightly in his seat. His knees move apart--just fractionally--but John’s eyes snap to them.

“You like that,” John says, a bit of wonder in his voice. Sherlock, actually aroused by the idea of belonging to John. Or maybe that was the heat talking. 

Regardless, John wants to cross the room, magnetized to Sherlock’s skin and that delicious promise--and it takes a fucking huge effort to remain seated where he is.

Sherlock looks at him across the room and licks his lips.

~

John doesn’t actually want to eat dinner. He mechanically shoves food into his mouth and thinks about ways he could shove Sherlock against the cabinet or the sink or the table or the wall or the fridge and press his thumbs into the small of Sherlock’s back.

Sherlock takes a single bite of pasta before he says, “Fuck this,” and practically launches himself over the table at John.

He drops himself in John’s lap, hands fisting into John’s hair as he jerks John’s face up and kisses him hard. John’s shoves his hands under the waistband of Sherlock’s pyjama bottoms and traces his arsecrack with his fingertips. Sherlock gasps into John’s mouth when John touches him there and god his briefs are so fucking wet and John needs him, needs him now.

“Bed,” John growls and Sherlock doesn’t register it at first because he’s grinding his arse down against John’s cock through their clothes and he’s so wet that John can feel the dampness of it seeping through two layers of cotton. His hips move of their own accord, pressing up against Sherlock and Sherlock takes a shuddering breath before forcing himself to stand up and drag John with him towards the bedroom, getting rid of clothing as they move.

Sherlock goes face down in the mattress, arse in the air and he’s practically singing, “John, John, I need it, please, please, John,” and John gives in entirely. He pulls off his boxers and doesn’t even care that he’s still got his shirt on as he crawls up on the bed behind Sherlock. Sherlock turns his head, reaches behind him to touch John’s cock, a momentary brush of thumb against the slit before it reaches up and squeezes around the part where John’s knot will swell. John grips Sherlock’s hips, listening to the way that Sherlock sighs and relaxes as he guides himself in. God, Sherlock’s so wet.

“Yes, yes,” Sherlock chants into his arm pressed up against the headboard as John starts to build up a rhythm. Sherlock thrusts back against him as each new push forward becomes more forceful. Sherlock bears his weight against the headboard and John fucks him, the smell of Sherlock’s arousal urging him forward. And then--it swells, blood pooling pleasurably, lightheaded ecstasy sparking up his spine as he tries to move within Sherlock, the knot keeping them together.

Sherlock moans, back arched, hair in his face but John can see how fucking hard he’s breathing just by the rapid expansion of his ribcage. John strokes his hands down Sherlock’s sides, presses his teeth into the nape of Sherlock’s neck, and thrusts shallowly until he can feel himself let go, pleasure whiting out any other thought except _Sherlock, Sherlock, Sherlock._

It takes a while for the knot to go down. Sherlock lays on his front, still panting and John drapes himself on Sherlock, mixing their sweat and their scent. When John finally pulls out, come drips out of Sherlock’s hole onto the sheets.

“I’ll clean us up,” John whispers.

“No,” Sherlock mumbles, “Leave it.”

John can’t articulate how much he really likes that. He presses a kiss to Sherlock’s shoulder.

Sherlock laughs and turns his head to steal a kiss on the lips.

“So much for self-control.”


End file.
